First it’s trot, and gallop then; Now it’s back to trot again; Teeny-Weeny likes it when He is riding fierce and fast. Then his dark eyes brighter grow And his cheeks are all aglow: “More!” he cries, and never “Whoa!” Till the horse breaks down at last. Oh, the strange and lovely sights Teeny-Weeny sees of nights, As he makes those famous flights On that wondrous horse of his! Oftentimes before he knows, Wearylike his eyelids close, And, still smiling, off he goes Where the land of By-low is. There he sees the folk of fay Hard at ring-a-rosie play, And he hears those fairies say: “Come, let’s chase him to and fro!” But, with a defiant shout, Teeny puts that host to rout; Of this tale I make no doubt, Every night he tells it so. So I feel a tender pride In my boy who dares to ride That fierce horse of his astride, Off into those misty lands; And as on my breast he lies, Dreaming in that wondrous wise, I caress his folded eyes, Pat his little dimpled hands. On a time he went away, Just a little while to stay, And I’m not ashamed to say I was very lonely then; Life without him was so sad, You can fancy I was glad And made merry when I had Teeny-Weeny back again! So of evenings, after tea, When he toddles up to me And goes tugging at my knee. You should hear his palfrey neigh! You should see him prance and shy, When, with an exulting cry, Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high, Plies his lash and rides away! NELLIE His listening soul hears no echo of battle, No pæan of triumph nor welcome of fame; But down through the years comes a little one’s prattle, And softly he murmurs her idolized name. And it seems as if now at his heart she were clinging As she clung in those dear, distant years to his knee; He sees her fair face, and he hears her sweet singing-- And Nellie is coming from over the sea. While each patriot’s hope stays the fullness of sorrow, While our eyes are bedimmed and our voices are low, He dreams of the daughter who comes with the morrow Like an angel come back from the dear long ago. Ah, what to him now is a nation’s emotion, And what for our love or our grief careth he? A swift-speeding ship is a-sail on the ocean, And Nellie is coming from over the sea! O daughter--my daughter! when Death stands before me And beckons me off to that far misty shore, Let me see your loved form bending tenderly o’er me, And feel your dear kiss on my lips as of yore. In the grace of your love all my anguish abating, I’ll bear myself bravely and proudly as he, And know the sweet peace that hallowed his waiting When Nellie was coming from over the sea. NORSE LULLABY